Shere Ali leaned back in his chair and the fight began.  He followed it with an excitement and a suspense which were astonishing even to him.  When the soldier brought his fist home upon the prominent nose of the Singapore champion and plaudits resounded through the house, his heart sank with bitter disappointment.  When the Jew replied with a dull body-blow, his hopes rebounded.  He soon began to understand that in the arts of prize-fighting the soldier was a child compared with the man from Singapore.  The Champion of the East knew his trade.  He was as hard as iron.  The sounding blows upon his forehead and nose did no more than flush his face for a few moments.  Meanwhile he struck for the body.  Moreover, he had certain tricks which lured his antagonist to an imprudent confidence.  For instance, he breathed heavily from the beginning of the second round, as though he were clean out of condition.  But each round found him strong and quick to press an advantage.  After one blow, which toppled his opponent through the ropes, Shere Ali clapped his hands.

“Bravo!” he cried; and one of the youths at his side said to his companion: 

“This fellow’s a Jew, too.  Look at his face.”

For twelve rounds the combatants seemed still to be upon equal terms, though those in the audience who had knowledge began to shake their heads over the chances of the soldier.  Shere Ali, however, was still racked by suspense.  The fight had become a symbol, almost a message to him, even as his gift to the Mullah had become a message to the people of Chiltistan.  All that he had once loved, and now furiously raged against, was represented by the soldier, the confident, big, heavily built soldier, while, on the other hand, by the victory of the Jew all the subject peoples would be vindicated.  More and more as the fight fluctuated from round to round the people and the country of Chiltistan claimed its own.  The soldier represented even those youths at his side, whose women must on no account be insulted.

“Why should they be respected?” he cried to himself.

For at the bottom of his heart lay the thought that he had been set aside as impossible by Violet Oliver.  There was the real cause of his bitterness against the white people.  He still longed for Violet Oliver, still greatly coveted her.  But his own people and his own country were claiming him; and he longed for her in a different way.  Chivalry—­the chivalry of the young man who wants to guard and cherish—­respect, the desire that the loved one should share ambitions, life work, all—­what follies and illusions these things were!

“I know,” said Shere Ali to himself.  “I know.  I am myself the victim of them,” and he lowered his head and clasped his hands tightly together between his knees.  He forgot the prize-fight, the very sound of the pugilists’ feet upon the bare boards of the stage ceased to be audible to his ears.  He ached like a man bruised and beaten; he was possessed with a sense of loneliness, poignant as pain.  “If I had only taken the easier way, bought and never cared!” he cried despairingly.  “But at all events there’s no need for respect.  Why should one respect those who take and do not give?”